End of the Watch
by Midsummer Knight
Summary: The men and women who had saved the world were now being torn apart by it... and he could do nothing but watch.


Time to test the waters. Let's see how this goes... Any criticism, advice, or feedback of any sort is greatly appreciated.

* * *

 _ **Herz aus Stahl**_

This is wrong.

Reinhardt Wilhelm knows that it is wrong. A quote comes to mind, from a distant figure from the distant past;

 _The only thing necessary for the Triumph of Evil is that good men do nothing._

There'd never been a problem with that, before. When evil reared the newest ugly face, Reinhardt had gone to confront it. Overwatch had turned their might to purging that evil from the world, be it an iron giant or a madman with a shotgun.

In all of his years, Reinhardt had never seen Overwatch fail to confront that evil since the day of it's conception during the Omnic Crisis. There had been setbacks, obstacles, workarounds. But never a complete and total failure such as this. But these people were never satisfied, were they...? No matter who they would have to confront, no matter the powers brought to bear against them, in the end they would always triumph. Yet today, sitting at his very expensive and totally meaningless oak desk, he could only watch as they broke that record; no... it had been a _promise._

Today, Overwatch had failed so spectacularly that had he not been sitting, it would have floored the old knight. They had given up. Not defeated; they had _given up._ With the wolves straining break through to the sheep, the sheepdog had turned away. One could say that it was not their fault, that the governments of the world had _forced_ them into it, but it was a strained argument at best.

He'd seen it coming, truth be told. Not long after his departure, Overwatch started to become... weak and lax and, dare he think it, corrupt. Something was wrong, there was a tumor in the heart of his beloved Overwatch, and it had not been apparent to him until he was already out the door. He had hoped that Morrison could cut out the sickness, before it was too late.

Now, the one force he knew could keep the peace had been disbanded, it's arsenal dismantled and it's membership scattered across the globe. Jack Morrison was gone. Only a few offered them a fond farewell and thanked them for their service, and Wilhelm knew to look behind the curtain. The people they had sworn to protect foolishly thought that they no longer needed them.

Part of him wished to correct them... and the other prayed that they would never find out just how wrong they were.

Talon and countless others had been laying in wait. With Overwatch standing vigil, their options were limited, their evil contained if not completely eradicated. Who was it, then, that would stand to oppose them now? When a city block was turned to ash in Hollywood, when the skyscrapers came tumbling down in Numbani and the streets became a battleground, who was it that was going to save them?

The silence was the damning response he had been fearing.

Perhaps if he'd stayed just a little longer he might have been in a position to do something. But it was gone, now. The armor, the hammer, the glory and the purpose were all locked in his garage, mere relics that he could admire when he remembered the good old days.

Reinhardt Wilhelm felt like nothing more than an ordinary old man, a war veteran who dreamed of his younger days. Where he might once have rushed into the fray, now he was like the rest of the world; sitting on the sidelines, watching the fire grow, and praying that someone did something about it.

It was almost enough to make him sick. It _burned_ to know that if evil men rose again into the spotlight, there was no one left to confront them. That _he_ would not confront them.

He had been given a nice house in Stuttgart, with a wide view of the city from his window. No expense had been spared, from the lavish interior and expensive furniture to the well-kept lawn. It was, they had thought, a fitting reward- among others- for the venerable knight's service. Their last gift to him, as it were.

He would have traded the wealth, the house, everything they had given him, if only to reclaim that purpose. To be able to _do_ something in the world, rather than just watch it pass by. Most elderly people were content to watch, but Reinhardt was not. He wanted to take part, to protect it.

For a brief time, he had been willing to accept that the new generation in Overwatch could take up his mantle and defend the world he had guarded for so long. He dared to think that he could overcome that... lack of purpose and glory. Now, it wasn't his choice to make.

All he could do was watch his brothers and sisters, the men and women who had saved the world, surrender to the very people they had protected... people who would soon have a gruesome, violent reminder of _why_ Overwatch was needed.

When the sheep have driven away the sheepdog, there is no one left to stop the wolves.


End file.
